February — undated, 1919

When Kerensky called today, I took this opportunity of relating to him an episode of my war days in Russia. It proved far from comforting and added to his burden of doubt and anxiety which, despite his brave words, is evidently very heavy. [Kerensky, former prime minister of the short-lived Provisional government (July-November, 1917), was one of the many fugitive “Pinks” in Paris representing Russian liberalism.]

In November, 1915, I traveled through Russia on my way back to my post in the Philippines. The English, for war purposes, had bought up all the trans-Pacific liners, and so I was compelled to proceed to the Far East by an unusual route, through war-stricken Europe. Certainly, this was the only way that would bring me to Manila before my leave expired. I crossed the Atlantic on a Danish steamer, the Frederick VIII, and after landing in Copenhagen I went by rail to Stockholm and from there by the so-called Lapland Express around the Gulf, via Tornea and Haparanda to St. Petersburg, since this was at the time the only rail route across Europe that had not been interrupted.

Peter’s improvised city, his “window” on Europe, presented a tragic spectacle. It was bitter cold and the streets were crowded with hundreds and thousands of half-frozen peasants who, fleeing from their homes in the border provinces, were seeking what shelter they could And from the advancing German armies. I stayed as always at the little Hotel de France, awaiting the departure of the Trans-Siberian Express which, owing to lack of fuel, now only ran once a week. This hotel had been the rendezvous of all the correspondents during the first revolution (1905-1906), and there I had foregathered with them. They were widely scattered now. Of all the familiar faces, only that of the trusty Beringer of Reuter’s was in evidence.

For the first day I wandered about, depressed by the sad spectacle which the once gay capital presented. In the great square by the Winter Palace, thousands of thinly clad peasants were being put through the manual of arms; but in lieu of rifles, which were not available, they were being drilled with sticks. I lunched at the Hotel d’Europe, where the war profiteers, still in fine fettle, were eating and drinking copiously. At a prominent table sat General Rennenkampf, responsible for the loss of two battles and the captivity of thousands of Russians now in the prison camps of East Prussia. He was on trial for incompetence and with having had treasonable relations with the German General Staff; but as evidence of the weakness of the government, the trial or the inquiry hung fire and the general drank champagne. The Great White Tsar? Was he living or dead? With certainty no one knew. If alive, he was leading a hermit’s existence in Tsarskoe Selo while the walls of his once mighty empire tumbled about him.

That evening I dined in the almost deserted salle of the Hotel de France. At an adjacent table, also alone, sat Prince Lvoff, whom I had come to know quite intimately during the revolutionary movement of 1905. He was at that time the leading spirit in the Zemstvo organization which, in spite of the open opposition of the imperial bureaucrats, made some headway in securing popular participation in local and provincial government. I had described his work in my cabled letters to the New York Times (sent via Germany of course) and had hailed his work as perhaps the only healthy and hopeful sign visible on the somber horizon.

The Prince recognized me, although he did not place me after all these intervening years until I made myself known to him. Then with the coffee, at his request, I moved over to his table. He seemed greatly interested in my proposed journey across Siberia and then, growing thoughtful, he asked me to his apartment where, as he said, it would be safer to discuss the present situation than in a public place where “walls have ears.”

Once in his apartment Lvoff admitted frankly that the imperial regime was headed for disaster; that the prevailing misery was more than flesh and blood could stand. He went on to say: “The more intelligent of the bureaucrats have read the handwriting on the wall and are conceding to my organization some power and a little authority. Many of our leaders have been placed with the war industries, and in many provincial governments our Zemstvo organizations have been given an opportunity to work. It is difficult to get this or any other news out of the country, but it is most desirable that our friends in Western Europe, and above all in America, should be advised of our hopes and our expectations. They must be advised of this trend in our affairs so that they may not be surprised by developments that cannot be much longer delayed. I have a letter to Charles Crane in America, always our good friend and always so helpful to the liberal movement in Russia, but it would be unwise to entrust it to the mail. I wonder if you would be so kind as to take the letter to Peking and mail it there, or better still, once there open it and cable the contents to Mr. Crane?”

I assured the Prince I would be pleased to do him this favor and then we parted for the night, and for good, as we thought, because he was leaving for Mohileff in the morning and my train left for the Urals a few hours later.

Back in my room I did a little packing and was preparing for bed, when suddenly (late in the day, I must admit) it occurred to me that I had let myself in for an act that was quite reprehensible under the circumstances. I now remembered that I was traveling under the safeguard of a diplomatic passport, and that it would be most improper for me to aid in the transmission of a letter which the government whose favor I enjoyed would have intercepted had they known of its existence. I hastened back to Lvoff, and my call, it was long after midnight, evidently startled him. I explained my dilemma and he was greatly distressed. Sadly, he said: “I had regarded you as a messenger from heaven. The service I asked of you would be valuable to our cause, but I understand your scruples and respect them.”

As I handed back the letter and saw his disappointment, suddenly a way of escape occurred to me. “I suppose it is a quibble, a mere quibble,” I admitted, “but still quibbles so often ease the pangs of conscience. If you should care to read the letter to me and then destroy it, I could on my arrival in China cable Crane that I had chanced to meet you and give him your message.”

“Splendid,” assented Lvoff, and he opened the letter and read it aloud twice. It was short and easy to commit to memory. It ran:

We are making great progress. We have now at least three hundred thousand men in the Zemstvo organization and there are many more in minor government jobs who are acquiring valuable experience and above all confidence in their ability to meet the emergency that will shortly arise. At the proper moment we shall take hold and the transition will be orderly. Your fear of anarchy is natural but unfounded. We shall not push matters but shall be ready to take the rudder when the discredited helmsmen jump or are thrown overboard.

When I reached this point in my story, Kerensky interrupted me with what was almost a wail. “Ah, what a mistake! What a tragic mistake—that delay. Our Liberals lost hope. They concluded that our leaders were talkers, not doers. And the criminals? They indeed were doers. They saw their chance and pitched in. No man’s life was safe, and the Zemstvos and the other liberal organizations were swept away in a maelstrom of anarchy.” Then rallying, Kerensky added: “It is heartening to see that once again the outlook is bright but, had not Lvoff waited so long, while the powers of darkness grew bold, thousands of lives would have been saved and Russia would not sit there as she does today, the Niobe of the nations, mourning for her children. But after darkness and death, the dawn is coming. It is unmistakable…’’—and a prey to emotions which I, in part, at least, had aroused, the poor fellow ran out of my room.

I cabled Lvoff’s message to Mr. Crane from Peking but did not see him again until he appeared at the Peace Conference four years later. Then he simply said, “Lvoff was an excellent man, but a poor timer. And as a prophet…”